The man left behind
by SheyRicci
Summary: Jason's restricted to base with the flu, so Bravo goes on a mission with Delta Team. They return with one less Bravo Team member then they left with.
1. Chapter 1

This is it!  
Second and last of the stories/thoughts/ideas bouncing around in my head.  
Thanks to all who enjoyed my first attempt. It inspired me to go ahead and post this one.  
Enjoy.

* * *

Jason stifled a groan. His stomach had yet to accept the fact it could not relocate to a location of its choosing by repeatedly attempting to force its way up his throat. His knees were wobbly even lying in bed. He was hot, he was cold; he shivered, he was sweating profusely. His head hurt. His mouth was dry. His lips cracked. God, kill me now.

"Hayes? You doing okay?" Lisa asked, poking her head through the door. "You need anything?"

"Go. Away." He groaned, pulling the sheet over his head.

"Having the flu sucks, huh?" she laughed, ducking the pillow flung back-handed from the bunk. He had pretty good aim, blindly tossing backwards with his left hand and not otherwise moving.

"Get. Out."

"If you would…." She began, as she entered the cabin. "…listen to the doctor. You might feel better." She nudged the door closed with a foot. "Hey, pretty girl. You staying cool?"

The dog woofed, tail thumping, but she didn't move from the draft between the window A.C. units and the fan.

"He's a fucking quack." Jason pooh-poohed. "Can't be the flu." he complained. "How does a guy catch the flu in 110 degree heat?"

"Orange juice is cold. Drink it."

"Don't want it."

"You still feverish? Still have chills? Head still hurt?" silence. He buried his head under the pillows. "Then drink your orange juice."

Lisa set a tray on the table, picked up the pillow and tossed it back onto his bunk, keeping her distance. Nope, a sick Jason was a cranky Jason and she didn't need her ears verbally blistered or her feelings hurt. And oh yeah, Jason was sick indeed.

So sick, the doctor had relieved him of command and he hadn't argued, relinquishing his entire unit to the command of Delta team. And hadn't Sonny just loved that! Had Ray been with the team, he would have assumed lead on the recon mission, but he was home with his wife and new son on paternity leave.

Of course Jason hadn't wanted his team to go anywhere while he was down, but it made no sense to leave an elite team idle when they could be used on a mission. And come on, it was a recon mission! What could happen?

And when would Jason learn not to say that?

The – well, mere cabin – that served as sleeping quarters for the six men was air conditioned by window units, and fans helped circulate the air throughout but Jason was hot…the sheets were sweaty and rumpled, but if he tossed the sheet off or dug his foot out for cool relief, the air rose goosebumps on his exposed skin and he shivered so hard his teeth chattered. In 110 degree heat.

His only company was a dog who sighed mightily every time he moaned or groaned and with a great show of annoyance, heaved to her feet and padded over to his bunk to lick his face, where, apparently not liking the taste of sweat, she whuffled her muzzle and blew dog breath on him and returned to her own bed.

Females.

The flu, the doctor had announced. Bullshit, Jason had retorted, because, how the hell did someone catch the flu in fucking Afghanistan? But apparently no one believed him and he'd been 'remanded' to his quarters by the good doc and forbidden to leave until he was declared hale and hearty. The flu? In this heat? This dry, arid, air. Really? Come on! And with Ray back in the States? Get serious.

He should get up and drink the juice. There was probably aspirin or some other medication meant to help relieve his fever with it and if Lisa said it was cold, then it was ice cold and not what passed for cold by the locals. He groaned, good God, did that even make sense? The quack insisted he drink plenty of fluids and liquids, – and really, someone needed to explain the difference to him, because he just didn't get it – said he was dehydrated and would be on IV fluids if he didn't start cooperating. Apparently, it was much easier to dehydrate over here, than at home. Duh. He flopped onto his back and eyed the pitcher of juice, but before he could make up his mind whether to attempt to gain his feet and pour a glass, the dog went on alert.

Jason frowned in surprise, rising up on an elbow. "What is it girl?" he rasped.

Cerberus was still in her bed, but her ears were pricked and she was listening to some sound Jason couldn't yet hear. Her head tilted to one side and then she was on her haunches, growling softly. Jason blinked and like a shot, the dog launched from her bed, cleared the desk in a leap and was out the closed, latched door.

Yeah, way to go Brock, Jason thought sourly. And here we thought it all so great when you trained her to open doors.

Eh well, she wouldn't go far. She knew the base better than any of them, no need to worry.

But...but then he heard what the dog obviously had; the arrival of heavy trucks. Faster than any armored vehicle would normally approach base camp, but Jason didn't recognize that fact like Cerberus had. So, he didn't panic. Wasn't an attack, no hostile vehicle could get this close to base, so, just Delta team returning.

Though he thought they'd be gone longer. Then again, he really didn't know what time it was. Or what time they'd left. Blackburn had said he was sending Bravo with Delta – his way of unofficially asking for Jason's approval – and Jason had merely waved him on his way. They guys were bored, left to amuse themselves with him down and Ray home, their antics had been a bit much and he was grateful for the peace and quiet. Only Sonny had quibbled about going under someone else's authority.

The mission, excursion, whatever, occurring during the day meant the dog stayed behind and Delta team didn't have a dog, so Cerberus had stayed in quarters with Jason, and what the hell was he trying to make his fevered brain understand? Oh, right. Was the team back?

Best drink the juice then. Sonny didn't back down to bared teeth and growled threats like Lisa did. He kicked free of the sheet and got to his feet. Woot, he was upright, albeit it, very unsteadily, and poured juice into the plastic cup. Not even five minutes, and despite the A.C., the pitcher was sweating. Proud he didn't spill much, he looked down at his t-shirt and boxer briefs….clean enough. Lisa usually left him a clean, dry shirt when he was in the john, and more often than not, when he crawled – collapsed – back into his bunk, the sheets had been changed.

How many days had it been now? Two? Four?

He poured more juice, pulled the t-shirt over his head and dried off with a towel before donning a clean shirt. There, felt better already. Though, he'd sweat through it soon enough. He sighed, tired of being sick and pulled a chair out from the table, meaning to sit down and see how long it was before he tossed up the juice or had to run for the john, when the silence on the base erupted into mass noise and commotion; horns, voices, dogs, slamming doors, running feet, yelling, shouting, cursing.

"The hell." He held the cup of juice to his cheek, seeking something cool against his hot skin, but either the plastic wasn't cold like a glass would be or the juice was already too warm. "Figures." So he held the pitcher and rolled his forehead against it instead. Better.

And like every mother knew her own child's cries, Jason knew both the voices of his men and the growls and snarls of his units' dog. Barking, Cerberus was barking. And no, this wasn't a 'so happy you're home' bark, or a 'you dare to invade my yard, you wily rabbit' bark or 'the mailman always goes away when I bark, so I'm barking' bark. This was an 'I'm going to rip out your throat bark'. She was attacking and she had something in her jaws and she wasn't letting go.

Christ, he couldn't even get sick and die in peace.

Setting the pitcher down, he swallowed the last of the juice in the cup, then steadied his way by hand-walking along the table, chair, desk, wall, over to the window. The door had swung shut behind Cerberus and even as he looked out the window, his hand reached for the knob.

And this is why you don't get the flu in the fucking desert.

"Fuck." He sighed, letting his head rest against the window pane. Utter chaos out the window and across the compound. The dust cloud was impressive and yet, with repeated squinting and blinking, he was able to see and what he saw made him sicker then he already felt.

Brock came off the truck, stumbled and went after someone…..who, Jason couldn't tell. From this distance, everyone looked alike. Men moved to stop him and the streak of brown was Cerberus coming to his defense. More shoving and shouting and struggling.

Jason blinked.

The second truck was now visible. Trent? Yes, Trent, swung off the back and hit the ground running before it had even started to slow down. Dumb ass, what was he thinking? At that speed, he was likely to fall and break a freaking leg. He ran for the medical tent. Sonny dove off the truck as it rolled to a stop, landed on someone and they hit the sand.

Jason blinked.

Brock was restrained between two men. The dog had the arm of someone and she had him on the ground, snapping and snarling, tugging and pulling. Sonny was on his feet and in the face of Delta's commander, Bevy – Jason's equal in rank. And Trent was running from the direction of the first aid cabin with Jason's doctor on his heels.

Jason blinked.

Men milled around. Someone was yelling at Trent to call off the dog. Trent was yelling back. Sonny was now in a fist fight with – not Bevy. The doctor had Brock's chin between his hands. Brock was struggling for his release because someone yelled to remove the dog by any means. More men came running. Someone tried to break up the fight between Sonny and whoever.

And Clay was nowhere to be seen.

Jason cursed. Swallowing bile and willing his stomach to allow the juice to remain, he opened the door and stepped out onto what served as a porch. The bright light blinded him, knocked him back a step or two, then drove him to knees. He knelt for a moment, letting the heat blister his already hot skin, then gained his feet and let out an ear-splitting, sharp whistle that instantly called Cerberus to heel.

The traitorous dog retreated to Brock's feet and sat.

Jason rubbed the back of his neck. Females. All up in his face and by his side all damn day, but now that Brock was back, Jason didn't exist. It was too hot outside for the dog this time of day. He didn't need to deal with a heat-stricken dog.

With the dog settled by his side, Brock submitted to the doctor, obeying commands to sit down.

Brock released and in the hands of the doctor, Trent produced a bowl of water, not for the doctor, for the dog.

Sonny picked himself up from the ground and collected his scattered belongings.

"That dog is out of control." Bevy spat, helping his fallen member to his feet. "Doc, need you over here. Dog bite."

The doctor ignored him.

Adjusted to the light and heat as well as he was going to be, Jason stumbled down the few steps to the ground and began to walk towards the melee in the compound. Once he left protection of the over-head canopy of tents that had been erected to provide shade on living quarters, the full force of the sun hit him and he staggered.

"Hayes." Bevy began angrily. "Like you and your men, that dog is undisciplined and dangerous. It attacked for no reason."

Jason had to shield his eyes with a raised hand, flicked a glance at the man Cerberus had taken to the ground in a fur-flying fit and shrugged. Good God man, let me get there before you get all up in my face. Fuck, the sand was hot. Ray was not having any more kids. Jason made the decision for him. Sorry Mrs. Ray, two is it.

That mere lift of one shoulder sent Bevy into a rage. "Doc! My man! Now!"

"Obvious head injury takes precedence over unconfirmed dog bite." The doctor snapped right back.

"Dog bites can carry rabies and cause infections that require antibiotics."

"That blood isn't his." Jason said dismissively. "He wasn't bitten. And the dog is update to date on all shots. Brock, what happened?"

"Oh no you don't." Bevy really was in Jason's face now. "You don't get to make this about your team Hayes. Not this time. I want that dog isolated. It came out of nowhere, attacked without provocation…"

Jason dropped his hand from his eyes and used it to push Bevy back out of his personal space. "You won't touch that dog. Now back off and get the fuck out of my face."

Anger exploded all around him. Everyone was yelling, shouting. The constant motion of everyone moving around, waving arms and talking over and at one another, kicking up sand and causing even more dust, caused blackness to encroach. He fought it back. But yeah, his knees were giving him clear warning of their upcoming betrayal.

"HAYES! BEVY!" Commander Blackburn strode into the melee, demanding order and silence. "ENOUGH! WHAT THE HELL?"

"Cerb attacked because the blood all over him…" Jason pointed at the man who clutched his arm, "….. is Brock's." he accepted the offer of a bottle of cold water and cold wet towel from Lisa who had appeared out of nowhere. "Now what the fuck happened?" he waited to see a stretcher bearing Clay off loaded from one of the convoy trucks. He didn't. His muffed-up brain managed to realize the doctor wouldn't be kneeling in the sand in the middle of the compound if a solider had been returned to base with injuries worse than those of a man who had come off a truck on his own two feet.

"That doesn't…."

"Where's Spencer?" Jason asked abruptly. "Brock, what happened? Sonny? Trent? Anyone? Someone?" he pressed a palm against his forehead. "DAMMIT! Someone talk to me!"

"Bevy sent him high." Brock said, holding the compress to his forehead while the doctor checked his pupils, pulse, whatnot. His face streaked with sand, dirt, blood, sweat.

Jason bobbed his head. Believable. Acceptable. He did it. Bravo had the best shooters. And of out them all, if anyone would be labeled a sniper, it would be Spencer.

"Didn't wait for him to come back before ordering pull-out," Brock was angry. His tone riled the dog up and she stood and bared her teeth. Jason saw no need to call her off. Yet. "Said there was no time, we couldn't delay. He ordered the driver to max speed. When I argued…" Brock pointed to the bruised lump and split skin on his forehead that still oozed blood.

"You left a man out there?" Blackburn stared. "On the dunes? Is this heat? This time of day?"

"He hit you?" Jason was stunned. "You hit him?"

"Delta doesn't dawdle." Bevy retorted. "I don't know about you and your team but when the command is given for pull-out, we go. We don't wait around."

"You. Hit. Him." Jason repeated, still trying to wrap his wayward head around that. "Hard enough to split his head open? You knock him out and leave Spencer out there? What the FUCK is wrong with you?"

"With butt-end of his rifle." Someone said and was instantly ordered to remain silent.

"Sonny and I were assigned to the other transport." Trent grabbed Jason's elbow and maneuvered him out of the sun to the shade thrown by one of the trucks. "You don't look so good boss."

"Yeah, tell me." Jason rubbed his face on his sleeve, the wet towel draped around his neck. "I feel like shit."

"We didn't know Spenser was missing or Brock was knocked out until we got here." Sonny added.

"Knocked out?" Blackburn repeated. "Bevy? Seriously?"

"Stunned." Brock cut in. "Came 'round in the truck, radioed Trent."

"When Spenser didn't show for our truck, we assumed he was on the other." Bevy retorted.

"You…..assumed?" Jason said so slowly, he didn't even manage to finish the last word. "You didn't know?"

"So, you knock the guy, asking where his team member is, in the head with a rifle?" Blackburn was speaking slowly, incredulously, slow to come to grips with what he was hearing. "Are you fucking serious?"

"Ask? Hell! He ranted and raved like a madman. He threatened to jump out of the truck! If the fall hadn't killed him, being run over by the truck behind us, would have." Bevy yelled. "What the hell did he think he was going to do? What the hell would you have me do?"

Jason rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands, drinking more water, trying to clear his head and think. But it was a destination he wasn't able to reach. "Not leave my man behind."

"He should have been on the truck." Bevy insisted angrily.

"He didn't have time." Brock argued. "You waited 32 seconds before ordering the truck to roll, no one could have made it down from the dune Spencer was on in that time."

"The order to roll after pull-out is sixty seconds." Blackburn said.

"He's lying!" Bevy yelled. "Jesus Christ! Okay, maybe we left a few seconds early, but for fuck's sake, we are back here, safe, the mission completed."

"Not everyone." Lisa spoke up, disdain clear in her voice and eyes.

"You're a piece of shit." Sonny spat at Bevy.

"Quinn!" Blackburn barked. "Not helping! Doc? He good?" he nodded at Brock.

"No stitches needed. He'll have a headache, perhaps a mild concussion, nothing to pull him from the field."

Jason finished the water. "One question." He dropped the bottle and with one palm still against his forehead, used the other hand to brace his weight against the truck. Nope, no go. He was going down. He was on his ass in the hot sand, hands holding his head.

"Hayes." The doctor sighed. "Help him up, take him to the infirmary."

"One question Bevy." Jason said again, not looking up. "Do you know when you gave the order to come down you were pulling out, if Spencer responded via comm's?"

"I didn't hear him." Brock said.

"Anyone?" Jason pushed. "You did call him in, didn't you?"

"It was hectic." Bevy finally said. "And yes, you asshole, I called him in."

"So, no." Jason fought for his tempter, dug down deep and groped around for it. "He didn't answer. You left that kid out there, in this sun, this time of day, in full gear, not even knowing if he was ok."

"He has water." Someone said. "Least he should."

And Jason saw red.

"Trent, ammo us up. Brock, get cleaned up. Lisa, ice. Someone confine the dog. Doc, med bag. Eric, Humvee." Jason barked orders. "Sonny, help me up, you're driving."

"What the hell is this?" Bevy blew up, rounding on Eric. "Spencer will find his way back. Good God, but you coddle Bravo team. This is bullshit!"

Jason let his wrists dangle from his raised knees. "Fuck you Bevy, we aren't done. This isn't over." but it was going to have to wait until later. Getting Spenser back came first. And yeah, Jason had to be able to throw a punch, land it and not fall over.

"What do you think you're going to do Hayes? You aren't fit to command. You can't even stand up!" Bevy shouted.

"Not your call." Sonny said snidely. "Come on boss, up you go."

"Even delirious, dehydrated, puking my guts, cramped with the shits, I'm a better team leader than you will ever be." He let Sonny haul him to his feet and support his weight. "I don't leave anyone behind."

"Hale and hearty?" Eric was back from acquiring the speedy deliverance of the requested Humvee. He shared a look with the doctor, shaking his head with a grin. "Can't do a thing with him."

"Oh, he's hearty. Not so hale."

"Hayes...hey….hey…HEY!" Eric sputtered as a Humvee drove up. The driver got out, leaving the door open and the motor running. "Wait a damn minute….you need pants! And shoes! HEY! Jason? Damn you!"

"Dammit Blackburn, you can't just stand there and let them go!" Bevy yelled. "This was my mission! I know the land, the route, the locals…."

Let them go? Eric snorted. Hell, he'd made it possible for them to go. "It was a daylight excursion. No hostiles in the area. Armed escort wasn't required for you, isn't for them."

Sonny took the wheel, Jason climbed into the back, held the door for Lisa and they were off to collect Trent and Brock. They came to a quick halt outside the infirmary where the doc handed a medical kit through the window to Jason, along with a pair of camos and a pair of boots. Trent took shotgun and Brock hopped in the back with Jason. Lisa perched without complaint on the cooler of ice and cold drinks she'd brought with her at Jason's request.

The Humvee was a 4-seater, the back meant for cargo….dog…or in this case, a possibly injured soldier.

"Bring him home!" Eric yelled after a cloud of dust. "You." He pointed at Bevy, the man attacked by the dog, and the man who'd engaged Sonny in the fist fight. "My office." And he spun on his heel and strode away.


	2. Chapter 2

I do not claim to know local customs or dress or language of whatever country I landed the Team in. So, yes, I made it up.

And, I am no medical expert…not even an amateur. I like to write, not research thoroughly. I try to stay as realistic as possible, but if medical inconsistencies bother you, read no further.

Enjoy!

* * *

"So, Bevy? What were you doing?" Blackburn asked with a weary sigh. Just what he needed; another clueless dick trying to pick a fight with Jason Hayes and when Jason wouldn't engage, found a way to make him come gunning. "Dog break skin?"

"No sir."

"You?" he asked the fist-fighter. "Any loose teeth?"

"No sir."

"So? Bevy? What gives? You think stranding Spencer is sticking it to Hayes?"

"I have no issues with Spencer or Bravo Team."

"But you do with Hayes?"

"Didn't say that."

"I can't have this Bevy. I don't coddle Bravo Team. They are damn good at their jobs and I see no reason to curb Hayes' somewhat unconventional ways of getting the job done." Eric rested his elbows on his desk, interlaced his fingers and pressed the pads of his thumbs against his closed eyelids. "I can't condone leaving any man stranded out there in this desert, on those dunes. Not during a simple recon mission. I'm giving you warning, if anything has happened to Spencer, I won't protect you from Hayes."

"The kid is fine." Bevy scoffed. "What could happen to him? At most, a sunburn?"

"Hayes will come after you with everything he has." Eric raised his head. "And I'll let him. Dismissed."

***000***

The table set for mid-day meal, Mahira served her husband first. When he waved her off, she served her three sons, oldest to youngest, then her daughters, and when her husband nodded his approval, took her seat and the family of seven bowed their heads for prayer.

She had just said the equivalent of America's amen when the door to their modest abode was kicked off its hinges. Literally. It smacked the wall, bounced partially back and fell at an awkward angle against the frame. Before she could do more than jump, a number of very large, very fast men invaded her home. She began screaming, her worst nightmare was coming true.

They were yelling in a language she recognized but did not speak – English. She saw the American flag on the chest of one man who was armed, but not pointing a gun at anyone in her family. The rifle was slung over his shoulder, not even in his hands. The way they rushed in and took command of the room – her home – moving with practiced ease caught her up in a wave of motion and she was on her feet, gathering her two youngest and hiding them within her skirts. Her husband's chair was pulled back from the table, he was dumped to the floor and it was flung aside. Two more children came to huddle against her as she cowered in the corner. Her oldest son tried to help his father to his feet and both were swept into the space between stove and cupboard by the frantic motion in the small room.

They were effectively out of the way and it had all taken mere seconds.

She didn't move, staring in open-mouth dismay over the brutal invasion into her home. What did these people want? Hope to gain? Their home was small, one story. They had nothing to steal, little to give and no room to house these men. The youngest children were crying in fear, the other two screamed in terror. Her eldest son spoke rapidly, asking to be left alone, to take whatever was wanted, to please go away. They were ignored.

With the swipe of an arm, every dish, plate, bowl, pot, utensil on their table crashed to the floor, was kicked from underfoot. Chairs where grabbed and tossed out of the way. She cried out at the loss and destruction. Dishes were not easily obtained and to have them destroyed without thought or care made her heart break. Why? Why would they do such a horrible thing? OH! Oh, ohohohoh, the table where she fed her family was now completely cleared and whatever was carried by two of the intruders was dropped and forcefully held down upon its surface.

Orders were given, questions were asked, answers shouted back, hands offered help, bags and backpacks were opened, pawed through, items withdrawn, tossed, thrown, demands were obeyed, voices cursed. The air of urgency, panic, their haste and actions, were felt by even the youngest children and they peeked around her skirts to stare, wide-eyed, at the frantic activity in their kitchen. She was too stunned and shocked to notice, as the four men, and there were four, she could count them now, continued to wreak devastation to her home.

She shrieked as she recognized what they had put on her table.

A man.

He was injured. He was not happy. And he did not want to lie on her table. Good, because she didn't want him there either. Every time he moved, his motion was countered by one of the men around him. His hand was caught, his arm blocked, his head held, his feet pinned. He squirmed, he was held down. He wiggled, he was stilled. He slid down the table, he was hauled back up it, his head back to the top.

She watched in horror as a wicked knife cut away straps and belts and buckles from the man who writhed and squirmed on her table. No one was gentle. He was pushed one way, rolled another, pulled back. She didn't know if he was struggling to get away or if begging for them to stop. His cries – screams – of pain were ignored. He didn't lay still, knees coming up and his boots were on the table, heels digging against the surface to gain leverage with his legs only to have his ankles grabbed and his legs yanked flat. He resisted, wanting his knees up. He slid down the table and again, without care, he was pulled back up, his hands grabbed when he tried to sit up.

"Stay down!"

Conversation rose in pitch, an argument broke out and Clay was pushed down onto the table for a third time. Sonny slammed Clay's shoulders roughly, rather hard, eliciting a gut-deep groan, in an attempt to stun him.

"Sonofabitch is stronger than he looks." Sonny panted, dragging Clay back up the table. "Yo, Brock, dude, little help here."

"Yeah, yeah, got him."

The helmet came off as the chin strap was sliced through. It hit the floor. The knife severed the laces on one boot. It hit the floor. Seconds later, it was joined by its mate. The floor welcomed the socks next. He was lifted off his back, the Kevlar vest was no match for the knife. It hit the floor. No knife was needed for the t-shirt. Someone used their teeth to start a rend at the hem, and ripped in two, the scraps hit the floor. The weapons belt around his waist quickly gave way under the see-saw motion of the sharp blade. It hit the floor. The straps securing a gun holster around his thigh gave way, hit the floor. Two knee pads hit the floor. Scissors cut a pant leg from ankle to crotch, repeated the action on the other pant leg, cutting around a section and leaving it. His legs were lifted and the cut up pants hit the floor.

She screamed. He screamed. The children screamed.

Within mere seconds, he was unclothed and she had never in her life seen a man in his underwear! And on her kitchen table! She closed her eyes, blindly groping to put her hands over the eyes of the two children still clinging to her skirts but getting bolder.

And he was bleeding all over her table.

Her dishes were stepped on, kicked aside by feet mindless of spilled food. If a dish, pot or bowl had managed to survive the crash to the floor, there was no hope for it now. She heard cupboards being opened, ransacked, rummaged through, and she opened her eyes to beg; the words foreign to her unwelcome visitors: Please stop. It is all we have. What do you want?

"Hold his legs."

Brock stood above him, pinning his shoulders to the table, Sonny was between his legs, hands on either knee, pinning his thighs. Clay didn't like that. Not at all. Nor was he content to allow the hold. He protested by kicking his heels against the table legs. Someone ordered him to stop it, but no one made him.

Effectively pinned down, Clay was quiet, breathing hard, rapidly panting, chest heaving, sweating. He didn't respond to his name, repeated calls or threats. Just groaned, stomach muscles tensing and rolling when fingers roughly kneaded and palpated along his belly, searching for symptoms of; swelling, bruising, tenderness, pain, rigidity - all signs of internal injury or bleeding.

"Clay! Deep breaths!"

They sat him up, laid him down, gave him a shake, held his head. He was rolled left, then right, his back palpated. And each time he was yelled at to breathe deep.

"Cough….no…cough…..Spencer…..hey, dammit! Come on! Sonny?"

And Sonny snapped his fingers next to the material still covering part of Clay's right thigh. He didn't cough, he choked, coming off the table all on his own with a scream of pain.

"Okay, ok, okay kid, sorry." Trent pushed him down. "Keep him down."

"Easy Spence, take it easy kid." Sonny gave his uninjured leg a jostle. "Trent will give you something for the pain in a minute." He looked at Trent. "Tell me you got something in that bag to give him some relief."

Trent nodded. He looked at Jason for permission who gave it with a nod.

Again Mahira covered the eyes of her children, she didn't want them seeing either the syringe or its entry into human skin. She turned her attention from the men around her table to the drama at her sink. Jason was yelling at her husband. Asking something, demanding answers to questions he didn't understand.

The men were frustrated, anxious, scared. Well, so was she. So was her family.

"Anyone here speak any English?" Jason demanded. He did not see a stove in the kitchen. How did these people cook? He needed hot water and if he had to point a gun at someone's head to get it, he would.

Her oldest son looked at his father and after receiving a nod of permission, stepped forward. "I speak American,"

A woman emerged from the circle around her table. Mahira hadn't noticed her before.

"Hi." She greeted, smiling gently. "I'm Lisa."

"Lease-sah." He repeated. "Me, Pashtan."

"Nice to meet you Pashtan." She extended her hand and after a moment, he shook it. "Would you please tell your family we mean you no harm? We have an injured team member and require assistance…." And she knew she'd lost him. So she started over and repeated slowly. "We mean you no harm."

Pashtan translated for his father.

"Water Davis, make friends later." Jason commanded. God damn, his head was spinning. "We don't have time for this shit."

"We need hot water." She pointed to the sink and waited. Pashtan nodded. "Yes, water. Something to carry it in. Heat it. That's it."

The boy translated this time to his mother, who looking less fearful, nodded and waved a daughter into another room. Where had this woman come from? She was dressed much like the men, for she wore pants and a t-shirt in the same colors and material as they did, but she smiled and spoke quietly, slowly and Mahira felt slightly better with the other woman's presence in her home.

"They don't cook in the kitchen." Brock spoke up. "Too much heat. There'll be a shed out back with a stove."

Jason knew that, he did, but he couldn't concentrate, or focus or think and the dim, airless room reeked of heavy spices from the ruined meal. He had all he could do to keep his stomach from revolting.

"Lisa, get him outside." Trent ordered. "Nowhere near the fire either. Clay, fuck me, I'm going to beat your ass, you don't lie still. Get him to drink." He told Lisa. "Throw some ice on him."

"Come on boss."

"Water." Jason insisted.

"Pump's outside." Brock mumbled around the flashlight he held with his teeth because Trent cursed the lack of decent light.

The girl the mother had motioned from the room returned with the only two pots the family owned and with Pashtan leading the way, Lisa and Jason followed him out the door in search of water and a stove.

Reassured by the woman that her family was not in danger, Mahira ushered the children into their bedroom and returned to the kitchen, joined her husband and stood and observed.

American service men. Here. In her home.

The man everyone called 'Jason' – for she'd heard the word enough to recognize it was his name – was the leader. She knew that by the way he moved, the way he barked orders, the way everyone talked to him, not at him. He spoke, they moved. Her eyes narrowed. He was not dressed as the others. His helmet was not strapped on, he didn't not wear a vest or belt, carried no weapon. His boots were not tied, his pants were not fastened, and he wore a black t-shirt - deadly in this heat. It was almost as if perhaps he'd gotten dressed in a car.

"Ssssh." Trent was saying, holding a bottle in one hand, Clay's chin in the other. "Hey, heyheyhey….enough of that. Stop, okay, come on? Just me here, your ole buddy Trent. 'K? You with me?" he spoke patiently. "Why you fighting me? It's eye flush Clay. Hey, stop, I said….Spencer, come on already, cut me a break."

Clay's head rolled, kicking against Sonny who moved slightly to avoid a kick in the crotch. Trent dodged a fist, releasing Clay's chin to slap his hand to the table.

"Good Christ, kid has like eight hands and three heads." Trent muttered. He smacked Clay. "Now, stop."

"Need his head still?" Brock asked.

"I want all of him still."

Brock adjusted his hold, hooking his elbows under Clay's arm pits, crossed one arm over his chest and brought the other up to intertwine his fingers in the kids mop of hair. It had quickly dried from its sweat-soaking and Brock made a face at the gritty sand.

"Good….okay…..yeah….that's it." Trent took the penlight from Brock's mouth, pried open one eye, flashed the light about, then did the same with the other.

"Fuck." Sonny said. "Why they all red and dry like that?"

"Sand is all." Trent held Clay's eyelid up and generously squirted solution from the bottle. "No goggles when the sand kicked up. Eye wash and he's good." He did the other eye. "Bet that feels better, huh Spencer?" he squeezed a cream from a tube and dabbed it on Clay's nose and cheeks as well as his lips. His forehead had been spared the brunt of the sun by his helmet but Trent wasn't stingy with the aloe cream.

()

Jason stumbled after Lisa and Pashtan, listening to, but not understanding their conversation. Christ almighty, he felt like shit. He could barely put two words together that made sense and it wasn't the sand blowing around that made him disoriented.

He watched the boy pump the water into the pot, watched Lisa set the pot on the stove that was fueled by either wood or coal or peat or whatever was used as fuel in these parts. He didn't know, didn't care, because it didn't matter. All that mattered was it would heat the water.

"Hey boss." Lisa gave him a bottle from their cooler. "Drink up."

"It's purple."

"Doc said you need electrolytes."

"Gatorade?"

"Yeah," she grinned, "Sure."

"Davis, what is this?"

"Grape. You need hydration Jason. Don't argue, just drink it. Gosh, men are babies."

Jason retreated with the bottle to the shade provided by the house, avoiding the additional warmth from the stove fire. He was never going to pooh-pooh and blow off the doc's diagnosis again. When he'd left on this trip, he'd expected to find Spencer trudging along the road towards base. Expected to pick him up, give him a good scolding – not a reprimand, he believed Brock's version of events over Bevy's, and yes, he was well aware, even in his fevered state, he didn't yet have the whole story – for missing his transport on the pull-out, and return to base where he could admit defeat and accept IV fluids.

Yeah, all hadn't gone as planned. Not one part of it; they hadn't encountered Clay on the road. Or any sign of him. Or sign of any other transport. No people, no hostiles, not even a fucking bird or prairie dog. Then they were at the area where the recon mission had been. A sand storm had kicked up, comm's went out, sat phones didn't get a signal and they were left blind.

They'd gotten out of the Humvee, he'd given permission for the men to split up and scout but had ordered them to remain within both sight and shouting distance. Lisa had gone with them. He hadn't been able to venture far from the shade thrown by the Humvee, had sat in the sand drinking water when, out of nowhere, Clay was walking towards him.

He'd gotten to his feet, only to return to his ass with a hard thud when Clay had collapsed in his arms, taking Jason down with him. He'd passed out, just coming around when Lisa let out a whistle to recall the team. They'd loaded up and driven towards what they thought was base. The sand storm made going tough, the compass had gone haywire, and now, here they were, no idea where and no idea how badly Clay was injured, or how or why or where, and Jason wasn't fit to have command of the situation. If anything happened to that kid, Bevy was done for. Hell, didn't matter if all Clay turned out to have was heat stroke and a hang-nail, he was going after Bevy with everything he had.

()

His eyes no longer burning, his face no longer on fire, the voices around him familiar, Clay was content. Maybe he'd passed out, he didn't know. He wasn't sure of anything. He didn't know where he was and opening his eyes and looking around, didn't place him anywhere he knew.

"Well?" Sonny demanded impatiently. "What we looking at?"

"No bones broken." Trent replied. "Bruise on his chin most likely from a fist. No signs of concussion. Kid ain't even scratched."

"Except his leg." Brock said.

"Yeah." Trent eyed the swatch of material they'd cut around and ignored, in distaste. When they'd attempted to pull Clay's camo's off, he'd whined. When pressure tugged at his hips, he'd whimpered. When gentle pressure became a yank, he'd cried out in pain. When the sharp yank didn't pull the material free, he'd screamed, head banging the table, back arching as his feet scrambled for purchase to push him up or off the table. They'd cut the pants off and cut around the area stuck tight to his skin and left it alone. "Embedded."

"What is it?" Sonny asked.

"Dunno." Trent shrugged. "Need water to loosen it without hurting him too much."

"Jason's on it."

"Trent, he's burning up here." Brock said. "Should he be this hot?"

"Probably not. We need to cool him down."

"We have ice."

"It's for Jason."

"He'll share."

Mahir stepped forward, speaking rapidly to her husband when he tried to stop her. She shook her head, shaking off his restraining hand. The boy on her table was too hot. She knew the signs of heat stroke. He was in trouble and the lunkheads standing around him were doing nothing about it.

Sonny reached for his handgun, but she untied her apron, took it off, removed the lid from a cistern in the corner and dunked it inside. Her movements were slow, she kept her hands visible at all times and she didn't attempt to hide was she was doing.

Leaving Clay in the hands of Brock and Sonny, Trent moved to see what she was about. He squatted down and dipped a hand in the cistern, bringing the liquid in his cupped palm to first his nose, then mouth, tasting it with his tongue.

"Water." He confirmed. "Thank you." He withdrew the apron, didn't bother to wring it out, and dripping water across the floor, returned to the table. There, he wrung it out over Clay's chest and stomach, letting the cool water trail wherever. "Feels good, eh?" he repeated the procedure three times, then motioned for Brock and Sonny to lift the kid off the table. He laid the soaking wet apron on the surface on the table and Brock and Sonny laid him down on top of it. "Where's the cooler? We need to get him to drink."

"Right here." Lisa was back. "What do you want him to have? Water?"

"Ice packs?" Trent asked. "What else you got? Gatorade?"

"Yup, blue gels."

"One under his neck."

Lisa complied, shushing and cooing as she lifted Clay's head and settled the ice pack under his neck. "Hey, there blues eyes." She smiled when he blinked up at her. "Hi."

"Davis." He licked his lips, rousing in response to the dousing of the cool water.

"Right here," She said cheerfully. "How you doing?"

His response was a groan and he turned away. She patted his cheek with a tsk-tsk and recalled his attention. "Not yet, need you to drink for me."

"'s, it?" it smelled weird. What was it?

"Sit? No, you don't have to sit up. Can you lift your head a bit? That's it….here…." she supported his head with one hand and held a bottle to his lips with the other. His tongue licked at the mouth of the bottle, lapped at the liquid but he didn't accept it, pulling away with a grimace. "No….no. Clay, you can't….you have to….come on. Hey, please?"

But he didn't respond to her cajoling, Brock's orders or Sonny's threats. She cast a worried glance at Trent who, with tweezers was poking around the material on Clay's leg.

"He can't swallow." She said worriedly.

"Yes he can." Jason nudged her aside, taking the bottle from her. "He just doesn't like it." He frowned at the bottle, holding it in the light Brock provided for Trent's gentle, and as of yet, non-evasive exploration with the tweezers. "What the fuck is this?" he scowled. "Is this….does that say…..you're trying to give him coconut water?"

"Doc said to give it to… _you._ " Lisa told him triumphantly. "So, HA!"

"Why the hell would he do that?"

"Because it's been proven to be one of the best drinks for re-hydration and the replenishment of nutrients and minerals." Lisa retorted. "Better than water."

"Not if a man won't drink it." Jason set the offensive bottle aside. But Jason would, if he had to, drink it. They all knew that. "Don't blame him. Where's that purple Gatorade? Didn't taste too bad."

The bottle she handed him had a tab top. Jason popped it up with his teeth, gripped Clay's chin with one hand, wedged the top between the kid's lips and squeezed. Clay choked at first, his mouth suddenly flooded, and he spit out more than he swallowed, but once his parched throat welcomed the moisture, he was content to open his mouth and drink as long as someone held the bottle for him.

"Jason, you good?" Trent asked.

"What's wrong?" Jason righted a fallen chair and sat down.

"We gotta make a decision."

"About what?"

"Staying, going, leaving. All of us, some of us…..taking him outside…..what to do."

"How is he?"

Trent shrugged. "Hard to say."

"Any signs of shock?"

"Heat stroke maybe. Exhaustion at least."

"Blood loss? Internal injuries? Trent? Don't shake your head. Guess if you have to!"

"Not a medic Jason."

"Closest we got."

"I ain't enough."

"You're going to have to be."

Trent sighed, staring at the tweezers in his hand. "Depends on what's in his leg."

"You don't know?"

"Geez Jace, he was screaming, we tried to take his pants off." Brock spoke up, no need for the boss to gang up on Trent. "We haven't touched his leg."

Clay was now shivering uncontrollably and Mahira offered Lisa a light sheet to put over him. Lisa nodded her acceptance of the offer and shook it out, letting it float down to cover Clay where it fell.

As Pashtan carried in the first pot of hot water, the men gathered protectively around their fallen Team member, who was still sprawled out on her table, and began arguing. Two were soon nose to nose, neither backing down.

"For the love of Christ, Jason, I'm not a combat medic!" Trent finally yelled. "Do you see a med patch?" he thumbed his chest. "I can't do what you're asking me to!"

"You're all he's got!"

"I can't do this!"

"We're right here with you." Brock said supportively.

"I can't hurt him like that Jason! Why don't you get that?" Trent spun around, clasping his fingers behind his head. "Might as well call it minor surgery, I have nothing to put him out with."

"I can punch him." Sonny offered. A lame joke. But it very well might come down to that.

"I get it Trent, I do. But comm's are down, sat's are out, we're cut off from base, all we got is a Humvee that's not a gunner, limited ammo and MAYBE enough gas to return to base. If we can figure out where base is. We chance it, don't make it, he's gonna die in my arms from heat and blood loss and shock or whatever you want to pick."

"Don't put that on me." Trent said harshly. "Not fair Jason."

Sonny looked at Clay. His blue eyes were open, but glassy and unfocused. He was succumbing to blood loss, shock, trauma…something. He was limp, his bones had oozed out and what mass was left, had turned to liquid. He was floppy as a rag doll. The pain meds he'd been given were just strong enough to keep him compliant. Not nearly strong enough if Trent started cutting into his leg to dig out whatever the fuck was embedded in his skin.

"Here, we have hot water, shelter from the sun, control of the sand, towels." Sonny said finally. "We can apply a tourniquet, control the bleeding."

"I nick the artery, I've killed him." Trent argued. "No pain med in that kit is strong enough either."

"Are the chances of you nicking an artery greater than the risk we take if we head back to base with him, run out of gas and are stranded in the desert? No shelter from the sun?" Lisa asked.

"No." Trent muttered. He slumped against the wall and slid to the floor.

"You have a surg kit, don't you? Clamps, sutures, staples, glue?"

"Yeah." Trent mumbled, eyes on his feet.

She spread her hands and shrugged.

Silence.

Brock broke the silence. "Blackburn will come."

"Eventually." Jason agreed.

"Can't you just leave whatever it is in, stop the bleeding, wait for Blackburn to find us?" She persisted.

"We don't know where we are." Sonny pointed out. "We drove blindly from the recon site."

"But he will find us." Lisa insisted.

"How long though?" Jason countered. "The longer we wait, the weaker he gets. Infection."

"He's strong, but no one is that strong." Trent shook his head. "Long as that's in his leg, his body will fight it, not let him heal."

"But we won't be here that long. Morning at the latest." Lisa handed Jason a wet towel. She expected him to pass out at her feet any second now.

"He's been in the sun too long. He's as dehydrated as Jason is. Whatever went in his leg, took dirt, sand, sweat, threads of his pants…bacteria, infection in with it….he can't fight it." Trent sighed. "Not alone, not for long."

Somber silence.

"Our choices." Brock said. "Stay here and wait for rescue, he _could_ die. Send someone back, leave him here, they don't make it, or do and don't make it back to us in time, he _could_ die. Take him and we make it, woot. Take him and head back, don't make it, he _will_ die."

"If we knew where base was." Sonny pointed out. "The way the wind blows out here, where there was a dune this morning, ain't one now."

Trent cursed, whipping the towel on his shoulder at the wall. "No fucking way Bevy's walking away from this in one piece."

"Agreed." Jason nodded. He wouldn't force Trent to do anything he was uncomfortable with, it had to be his decision. Again, Jason cursed his earlier refusal to allow the doc to treat him.

Trent pushed to his feet. "You guys wanna hold him or tie him down? I can't have him moving all over."


	3. Chapter 3

Again y'all….medical inconsistencies here. Don't try this at home! Hahaha…..you're all so much nicer than another fandom I've written for. Thanks for the support.

Hope you all enjoy!

* * *

"Hey, hey." Jason was on his feet and around the table after Trent but had to pause against with a shoulder against the wall. Dear God, he was going to faint. Like a girl. He winced. That was offensive. Fuck it.

"Uh, Jason?" someone was distantly calling his name. Not now. Not. Now. He couldn't hit the floor now.

Taking advantage of the lull in activity, Mahira picked up bowls and plates. Broken, chipped, cracked, she stacked what she managed to salvage from booted feet in the sink. She couldn't say why, but the mere presence of the little brown woman assured her, she and her children were in no danger from these men. She kept a wide circle between her and Jason though, she wasn't too sure about him, sloppily dressed as he was. But the other men paid her no mind, did nothing more than lift a foot or step aside when she bent over and tried to pick up something they were standing on.

She grabbed a broom and began to sweep, would this day ever end? She glanced at a clock on the wall. She gasped, freezing, handing going to her heart, broom hitting the floor. These men who had been in her home all day? – hadn't been there twenty minutes.

And still, they let the poor man on her table bleed.

"Trent, hey." Jason didn't know what the other man was doing, sweat blurred his vision, but he stopped him from doing it. "Hey, listen to me." He grabbed Trent around the back of his neck with one hand and pulled him close. Forehead to forehead with his boss, Trent frowned, feeling the heat – Jason still ran a fever, and not because it was hot outside, inside, everywhere – because though Jason denied it, he had the fucking flu. He allowed the hold, needing comfort and reassurance from his boss to remain calm and steady. "I ran rough on you, we have choices, this is only one of them."

"Could be anything Jason. We aren't too welcome around these parts." Trent closed his eyes. "For all I know, it's killing him."

"Figuratively." Sonny said. "Like I stubbed my toe and it's killing me."

"Literally." He knew what Jason was saying, agreed with him. Knew their situation. But he wasn't a medic. Didn't want to be one. The fact that he know more than his team members wasn't fair. Clay was young, he was strong, his body would instinctively fight for survival. An actual medic would probably know if they could risk waiting for retrieval from their commander, but he wasn't a medic and he didn't know. The best he could do was guess and trust his gut. And his gut told him to get out whatever was lodged in Clay's leg. "Got something to tie him down with?"

"We'll hold him." Jason replied, letting go and Trent blinked at the absence of his hand. Sometimes, mere human contact was the best steadying, calming influence on a man. "I'll do it."

All three men and Lisa, snorted. Sonny rotated his finger in the air next to his temple, the known motion for calling someone cuckoo-coo.

Jason rolled his eyes. "What?" he demanded defensively. He sat back down on his chair. "Will so."

"I need him held still." Trent said dryly. "Not hugged."

"Yeah, boss. Don't think you could hold Davis down if you tried." Sonny cracked, ducking the empty bottle Lisa flung at his head. "Trent, flat out, you good?"

"Yup. Brock, how's the head?" Trent asked. "Seeing okay?"

"Thumbs up," He'd been too busy and occupied to think about his aching head. "Single vision."

Trent returned to what he'd been doing when Jason had stopped him. He poured hot water from the pot into a pail that sat on a chair he'd righted and put next to the table. He tossed in several towels Lisa had found and surveyed Clay, hands on his hips.

"God kid, forgive me." Rip the material off like a Band-Aid or carefully, gently? He ran a hand through his hair. Thing was, he had no idea why it was stuck in the first place. Dried blood? "Brock, switch places with Sonny."

"He ain't no stronger than I am." Brock protested irritably. He'd relaxed his hold because Clay had gone limp but he hadn't let go, the sheet over his arms.

"He's meaner." Trent was using a wooden spoon removed from a hook on the wall to poke the towels around in the water. "He'll bang his head against the table hard enough to knock him out, will you?" he waited. Brock let Clay go and stood up from his slouch over the table. "What I thought. I'll need more hot water."

Mahira hugged her broom. Pashtan took the empty pot. "You need more?"

"Keep it coming."

Pashtan skipped out the backdoor and Trent could find no more reasons to delay. He flipped the spoon around and fished in the water until he hooked the small hand rag he was looking for. "Lisa, get him something to puke in."

"Clay?"

"Jason."

"I'm okay." Jason insisted. "Christ."

"You won't be." Trent muttered.

"I'm fine." Jason bit out.

Clay stirred, biting his lip to keep his groan of discomfort to a mere moan. He failed. His skin felt damp, a feeling he didn't like. His nose twitched, trying to dislodge sand…..God damn, he hated all this frick-fracking sand.

"He's gonna scream Jason, and all I'm going to do is soak that material, see if it'll come off easily."

Who was going to scream? Clay wondered irritably. Whoever it was, he hoped they left before they started carrying on. He'd leave, but he was so tired, so weak. He really didn't feel up to getting up and walking out. He wanted silence, maybe a blanket and he wouldn't say no to some aspirin. Because his head really hurt. It was killing him.

"Spencer?"

Clay blinked. Kept blinking until his lashes parted and his scratched lids lifted. His eyes were sore, dry. His jaw wanted to crack, but his mouth wouldn't open. His teeth hurt. Taking a breath made him wince.

"Hey."

Heavy-lidded eyes slanted somewhat open, Clay gave a half-hearted attempt to force them into focus. Five faces loomed over him, all staring down at him: Trent, Sonny, Brock, Lisa and…..a woman in a hijab? He blinked again, thinking that would make that odd sight go away. It didn't. And now there were six faces.

"Shit." He stared.

His team cracked grins and chuckled at his expression. But there was tension in the room and the laughter was uneasy.

"Yeah, that's Jason." Sonny teased, but even his tone was off. "Say hi to your boss."

Clay let his eyes close and turned away. His ass was fried if Jason was there. Wherever there – here – was. He didn't know much, remembered less, but Jason had been confined to quarters by the doctor and wherever here was, wasn't there.

Trent used two fingers under his chin to make Clay face him again. He found humor despite the situation they were in. He had to, or he'd be sick. If the kid was mortified that Jason had come off his sick bed to retrieve his ass, how embarrassed would he be if they told him Jason had held a bottle for him so he could drink?

"Spencer? You with me?"

Trent debated whether or not Clay was with him enough to tell him what was going on, what was going to happen. Let him make the choice what to do. He'd want to know if some unskilled-not-a-medic was about to go digging around in his leg with scalpel and tweezers.

"Heat hurts." Clay mumbled. He tried to raise a hand to rub his forehead but they were too heavy to move. "My hand?"

"Sonny's holding it." Trent explained. "He's being a dick. Can you feel him squeeze it?"

Sonny obeyed and squeezed. Clay yelped and Sonny had the grace to duck his head, looking sheepish. He really hadn't intended to squeeze quite so hard.

"My….head." Clay groaned, forgetting all about being unable to move his hands.

"Yeah." Trent sighed. "I know." No, Clay wasn't with it. He should be bitching about his leg, it had to hurt, but he was whining about his head and hands. His head hurt because he'd been in the sun too long. Or maybe from loss of blood. Dehydration. And his hands were fine, he could move them if he wanted to. Sonny wasn't pinning him down yet. The shot of morphine had made him muddle-headed.

"You a believer in something to bite on?" Brock was asking Trent.

"Jason, you need to sit back down." Lisa waved a hand over the floor, made a face. "Floor is filthy."

"What are they saying?" Jason asked. "I can't hear them, why can't I hear them?"

"They're whispering."

Mahira didn't understand the words, but she understood the look from Lisa and the wave over the floor and took offense. She squawked, brandishing the broom. Her floor was only dirty because they had made it so.

"Pipe down." Jason ordered and she submitted meekly, but oh, did she glare. "Over there, sit."

"You sit." Lisa ordered. He sat. "Dry off, you're all wet." She handed him a dry towel. "Need ice? Hasn't all melted yet. Here." Brock and Sonny had switched places, Trent was stirring towels in a pail of water, and yeah, they were talking about something. Lisa couldn't hear either. And that pissed her off because they were not far away. "Jason, come on. This goes sideways, they're going to need your help holding him down…..you need to be able to do that. Dry off and drink."

"He's a 25 year-old kid, he ain't that strong." But he took both the towel and water. "What are they talking about?"

"Dunno." She too, glanced over when Trent raised his voice and Sonny yelled in response.

"He can bite Sonny." Trent was saying. "More a distraction."

"HEY!" Sonny protested. "No biting the hand that holds you. Stuff a rag or something in his mouth."

And she saw Brock roll and twist a towel before wedging it between Clay's teeth, smacking his cheek when he attempted to spit it out. Her stomach knotted when Sonny forcefully pried open Clay's mouth.

"Jesus." She breathed.

Mahira was offering Jason an earthen cup with no handles. He was waving her away from him. Lisa tweaked his ear for being rude and took the cup. Mahira pointed at Jason, and motioned at her lips. Lisa sniffed. Tea. Of some kind. She smiled her thanks at Mahira, and praying she wasn't about to order the team boss to drink poison, ordered him to drink.

"That?" Jason shook his head. "Not a chance in hell."

"A chance on Clay's life?" Lisa countered, and oh, if looks could wither and kill.

"You trust these people?"

"They want us out of their house, their lives, not dead. It's tea. Now drink it, damn you."

The family wasn't evil. They were poor. Jason drank.

"Will muffle him some." Brock pointed out. He and Sonny had changed positions. Trent was right. As usual. If he gave the order to knock the kid senseless, Sonny wouldn't hesitate. He wouldn't take pleasure in it, but all the same, he'd knock the kid for a loop. Brock would if he had to, would if Sonny weren't there to do it, but Sonny was there, so Brock didn't have to worry about it.

"We ready?" Trent asked.

And the minute or so lull of frantic activity in Mahira's kitchen exploded and shattered as the three men began.

Sonny held Clay much the same way Brock had, arms under his armpits and folded across the kids chest but he bore his weight down on Clay's shoulders, pinning him to the table. "Ready."

Brock yanked Clay's feet off the table, pushed his knees together, looped an arm behind them, trapped the kids ankles between his thighs and bore all his weight on his remaining arm just above Clay's knees, pinning him to the table. "Ready."

Trent said a prayer. He wasn't sure what he'd reaction he'd get, but expected a violent one. The morphine simply wasn't a high enough dosage to be effective against what they were about to do. He fished the towel out with the spoon, and laid it hot and steaming, dripping wet, on top of the material he'd left on Clay's leg.

Jason flinched at the yelp of pain. Muffled, but audible.

By the third application of the hot water, Clay was struggling against the hands holding him down. Sonny spoke softly in Clay's ear, so it wasn't yet an all-out fight, but Trent pretty much guessed it wouldn't be long coming.

Finally deeming the material soft enough, Trent removed the towel and flashlight in his teeth, went to work first with a soft cloth, dabbing, wiping, rubbing, loosening the blood the sun had baked into crusty scabs.

A puncture wound didn't normally bleed much unless the object was forcefully removed. So why was Clay steadily losing blood if whatever had punched through his leg was still there? Or when it had scabbed over? With tweezers and scissors, he was able to cut down the swatch of material until all that was left covered only the wound itself. Snipping, cutting, plucking, thread by thread, little by bit, he began to pull it away from the wound.

"Gonna hafta spread his legs." Trent said tersely. "Need to get at his inner thigh."

"Little more to the right….our right…his left….no, yeah, left, no right, that way…..Stella would be in mourning." Sonny cracked.

"So not the time." Brock panted, easily able to adjust his hold, but spreading Clay's legs made it impossible for him to restrain both, so he held down the right one.

Most adults had a general understanding where the femoral artery was in the thigh. Trent had a bit more knowledge than the average person, but not as much as a medic had. The object was close to it, but had missed it. Course, if it hadn't, the kid would be dead; having bled out, alone in the desert.

Now, if only Trent could do the same digging the mother-fucker out.

Hot water. Wet cloths. Cut, snip, dig. Repeat. Until Trent was finally able to pull the last of the material away.

Clay was tense, rigid, but conscious. Trent kept hoping the kid would give in and just pass the hell out.

Free of scabs, crust and material, the blood gushed and Trent folded a towel in threes and applied steady pressure. Clay cried out, hands fisting and banging against the table top.

"Why's he still bleeding?" Sonny asked. "He's lost a lot. Too much?"

"The fuck is that?" Brock asked when Trent pulled the cloth away and they got their first look. "Stabbed? Shot?"

"Thought he wasn't shot?" Sonny accused. Trent had assured them of that in the Humvee before they'd reached the house and stripped the kid to his underwear. He used a corner of the sheet to wipe the sweat from Clay's face.

"I know what a bullet-hole looks like asshole." Trent retorted. "Said he wasn't shot and he wasn't."

"Then what is it?" Sonny demanded.

"I didn't know better." Trent poked in and around with the tweezers then reapplied pressure with the now blood-soaked rag. Clay bit through his lip, spat blood. Brock wedged the cloth between his teeth a third time. "I'd say arrow, dart. Can't really see it."

"Arrow? Out here?" Sonny shook his head. "Where's the rest of it? Shouldn't there be a shaft? Nothing to hunt."

"Well," Brock hedged. "Us."

And Jason was out of the chair and dragging the man of the house out of the corner, throwing him against the wall, pinning him there with an arm across his throat, choking him, cutting off his ability to breathe, yelling in his face, demanding answers about who used what for protection. The children were screaming in the other room. Mahira was whacking Jason across the shoulders with her broom. Lisa was attempting to wedge herself between Jason and the man he was strangling. Pashtan came in, set the pot down and kicked Jason in the leg.

"Where's your weapons? What do you hunt with? Huh? Arrow? Spear? Who's around here?"

"Jason! Let him go! Let him go! He doesn't understand you! Let Pashtan translate! Jason!"

"Dunno." Trent said. "Sling shot? Spear? Stabbed him, broke…..whatever it is, wish it had been sharper." he picked up a pair of what looked like forceps with a pointed tip. "Got him?"

They thought they did, so in unison, they nodded.  
But they didn't.  
Whatever the forceps had hold of, didn't give when Trent pulled with a sharp yank.  
Blood spurted.  
Clay was off the table.  
Sonny was on it.

Mahira shrieked. The men shouted. Clay screamed. Jason dropped the man.

Sonny was on his knees, sitting on his heels on the table, Clay hugged to his chest. How he got there, he didn't remember.

Trent held tight to the forceps, going across the table with Clay when he broke Sonny's hold.

Brock was tying Clay's ankles to the table legs. The awkward and taut position made Clay uncomfortable and he soon began to squirm, seeking relief from strained muscles.

Mahira flapped her hands in dismay. These men were brutal. And surely, her table couldn't hold the weight of two men!

Clay's hands flailed, punching, slapping, clawing at Sonny for release. Sonny took the blows, his head held back from the range of a possible head-smack from Clay. One good crack to his jaw and he'd be done for.

"Dammit Lisa, you ain't helpless. Grab his hand." This from Sonny, taking a glancing blow off the chin.

Lisa bristled at the implication she was useless but before she could comply, Jason had both of Clay's hands in one of his and was holding the kid's head still by his hair with the other.

"Tie his hands, gimme his wrists." Sonny said. "I can hold him."

"Whatever you're doing, do it quick." Jason said thickly, head spinning, stomach churning and it wasn't because he had the flu in 110 degree heat. He was sick that he wasn't strong or steady enough to help hold the kid down and he had to be tied.

Jason held Clay's hands back to back as Lisa quickly and efficiently tied them together, handing Sonny the dangling rope so he could pull Clay's bound hands to his chest. Clay laid in Sonny's arms, dazed but conscious, slick with sweat and trembling so hard, the table shook. Pain had become dominant, controlled his body's actions. His stomach muscles were bunched, quivered, as he fought for his breath and freedom from those holding him and subjecting him to all the pain.

Again Sonny used the sheet to wipe off the heavy sweat that made the kid slick and hard to hold.

"I need light." Trent barked.

And six LED flashlights clicked on. Trent looked up. Lisa held hers and Sonny's. Jason held his and Clay's. Mahira held possession of his and Brock's. He nodded. One demand answered within seconds.

Now that he had hold of it, and Clay had once again been restrained, this time securely, he wasn't letting go, afraid if he lost it, it would move. He had no idea when his flashlight had dropped from his mouth but he had to see what he was doing. Clay's violent jerk and launch across the table hadn't dislodged the object. Wiggling and jiggling didn't dislodge it either. Pulling and tugging only succeeded in making the kid spit out the cloth yet again and bite through his lip. Trying to twist it free had Brock thumbing tears from the kid's cheeks.

Sonny spared a hand to make sure Clay hadn't bit or swallowed his tongue then gave him the cloth to bite on – again.

"Sonny? Got him?"

"A sec." Sonny backed off the table, laid Clay down flat then got back up on the table, a knee on either of Clay's shoulders, the rope to his tied wrists in one hand, using the other to hold Clay's head still by the chin. "Good."

"It ain't coming out without a fight." Trent said. "Brock, pressure right there, hold firm, don't let go." Gripping tight, both hands on the forceps, Trent yanked as hard as he was capable of doing. It didn't come out, the forceps held tight and despite Sonny's hold, Clay slid down the table towards Trent from the force of the pull.

"Son-OF-A…..DAMMIT!" Trent exploded, throwing the forceps across the room in a fit.

Clay was grabbed, dragged up the table. Sonny's hold hurt, the grip bruising. Brock was straddling him, sitting on his stomach, using both hands to apply pressure on a towel he held against the bleeding. Clay arched, bucking against the suffocating hold, tried to twist free. His head slammed against the table hard enough he stunned himself – no help from Sonny needed – choking on bile, spit, blood. His thrashing had caused him to bleed heavier and Trent used wads of gauze to pack the wound, ignoring the added pain it caused.

"You're scaring him!" Lisa cried.

"Dammit Spencer, pass out already."

"I'll hold the pressure…..you have to cut it out, don't you?" Jason asked.

"Yup."

Mahira added more hot water to the pail and sent Pashtan out to heat even more. The blood was never coming off her table or out of the wood on the floor. There was too much and no one tried to clean it up. Just stepped on it, knelt in it, smeared it. She looked at her clock, staring in disbelief. Not even five minutes had passed.

"How much blood can he stand to lose?" a transfusion was beyond Trent's abilities. They didn't have the necessary equipment anyway. "Trent?"

"He's lost a lot Jason." Trent washed his hands and picked up the scalpel. "Let's get this over with."

Knelt on, sat on, his legs tied, his hands tied, Clay was finally held still. This time when he was offered the cloth to bite on, he took it.

Trent tied off a tourniquet. Not as tight as he'd like it, but tight enough the flow of blood slowed enough, that with both Brock and Jason swabbing blood, applying pressure, pinching skin, Trent could see what he was doing. He wasn't an expert on tourniquets, but with one applied and clamps nearby, if he nicked an – the – artery, Clay wouldn't bleed to death on him.

Clay stirred with a soft whimper, every visible muscle taut and strained. Trent swallowed, and with now four LED's lighting his way, he proceeded to ignore Clay's flinches, jerks, and twitches; ignored his moans and cries, muffled screams and cut skin, tissue, God knew what, doing his best to avoid muscle and tendon.

Whatever he was after, did not want to come out. The wound was deep, Trent had cut it wider. His two fingers knuckle deep and using tweezers because he could get closer inside the wound, he carefully pinched the object with the tips, held tight, cut with the scalpel and with some finagling, finally extracted the fucker and dropped it into Jason's outstretched palm.

"Can I puke now?" Jason asked faintly, closing his fingers around the object.

"Sure." he was told by someone.

"On second thought…" he weaved. "…..think I'll pass out."

They let him hit the floor.

"We let him go yet?" Sonny asked, eyes suspiciously moist.

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"Jesus Trent."

"Gotta clean it out, stitch him up." He was already picking out pebbles, threads, tiny pieces of material with the tweezers. Lisa squeezed saline solution to irrigate when commanded.

"You haven't put him through enough?"

"Fuck you Quinn. You want him to bleed out?"

"Hey." Brock cut in. "Stitches or staples?" he held the med bag.

"Staples are faster." Trent replied. "Doubt anything will prevent infection now."

"Least he's current on tetanus." Lisa patted Clay's cheek but got no reaction.

"Forceps." Brock held his hand out. "I'll hold the edges together, you staple."

Clay tensed at Brock's touch. Moaned at the application of the forceps. Cried when his skin pulled together. Cried out at the first staple. Went limp at the second. Passed out at the third.

Mahira shrieked, dropping the flashlights. They'd finally gone and let the boy die.


	4. Chapter 4

Blame Emergency/Squad 51 with Johnny (Randolph Mantooth) and Roy (Kevin Tighe) for my infatuation with hurt/whump. I was soooooo young but Mmmmm, yeah, never outgrew it.

* * *

"Eric?" Mandy knocked. "Hey, hi ya," She opened the door to the trailer that served as his office, poked her head in and sniffed indelicately. "You're not smoking, are you?" she entered and set a pint of low-fat milk and a loaf of wheat bread on his desk.

Eric just moaned.

She waved a bottle of Pepto. "What happened?"

He reached for the bottle of pink paradise. "Thanks."

"Ulcer's acting up, huh?" she glanced around the office but couldn't detect any chaos and decided his issues were personal. "What did you do to upset your wife this time?" No, wait, there were some papers on his desk…..a file…a transfer file?

"Told her I wasn't leaving Friday." Eric drank from the bottle, provided measuring cup/lid be-damned. Medically, Pepto wasn't proven to ease symptoms of an ulcer, but either it helped calm the burning in his gut or he just thought it did. Either way, anyone tried to take his bottle of pink miracle medicine away from him, they were losing a hand.

"Bet that didn't go over well." She patted his shoulder sympathetically as she passed him to look out the window. Nope, no activity on the base. Everything was quiet, people were hunkered down inside during the hottest part of the day. "What's going on Eric?" she frowned, judging Eric's mood. Upset his wife by not going home as scheduled? Had to be Jason. "What did Jason do this time?" she asked, sitting down. She felt right at home running free in Eric's office. "Didn't the doc confine him to quarters?"

"Yup." Eric swirled around and using a ruler, slapped a spot on the map pinned to the wall. "Not there now." He traced the large red circle with the ruler and smacked the center again. "Now, he's there." More Pepto. "Least, he's supposed to be."

"But he's not?" She again looked out the window, but sitting down, all she could see were the over-head tents. "Does that stuff really help?"

"I sent his team on a recon mission with Delta." He looked fondly at the bottle of Pepto, "Will do for now."

"Bevy?" she snorted. Explained why someone had been smoking in Eric's office. "What happened?"

Eric poured a glass of milk and munched on a dry slice of bread. Anything to appease his stomach. "Delta came back without Spencer."

"They what?" Mandy got to her feet and went to the window. The Bravo Team quarters were quiet. Jason wouldn't stand for any member of his team being left behind. Oh no. "Do you know what happened?"

"Bevy," Another slice of bread. "Is a dick. Anything to pick a fight with Hayes."

"Jason went to get him." Mandy stated, no guessing required. She knew.

"Took his team and Davis."

She nodded, crossing her arms. Sonny stand aside, stay back, while his boss, stricken with the flu, took off in search of one of their own that another Team had left behind? Not while he still drew breath. She was surprised Sonny had even returned to get Jason. And she said so.

"Quinn left him?"

"Sonny didn't know. He and Trent were on the other transport. When Brock came to, he radioed Trent….."

"Came to?" Mandy interrupted. "Brock's hurt?"

"Knocked stupid by a rifle butt."

"No hostiles in the area." Mandy argued.

"In the truck."

"Someone on Delta hit him?" she raised an eyebrow. "Wow, Jason must really be sick." but she knew retrieving Spencer came first, Delta's ass-kicking would come.

"We haven't heard from Bravo since."

"They haven't called in?" she was frowning again.

"Comm's are out, sat's are down, can't raise 'em. Sand storm."

"Then something is wrong."

"No field medic with them."

"How long has it been?"

"Since they left? Three hours. I expected them back in two."

"Are you searching?"

"Unit's on the ground."

"Air?"

"On standby."

"Delta?"

"Reassigned."

She sat back down. "So you think something happened to Clay?"

He just stared at her.

"It's going to be dark soon."

"Sun down, it'll cool off."

"They'll find shelter."

"Not if they didn't find Spencer."

She winced. Jason wouldn't return without a body. "Why aren't we leaving Friday?"

"You can." Eric corrected. "Jason's in no condition to fly. Dunno what condition Spencer will be in when they bring him in."

***000***

"What's her problem?" Sonny scowled at Lisa. "Do something. Shut her up."

Lisa stared him down, hands on hips. Why her? She and he were gonna have a fight. "Listen here Sonny," she began, but was just too worn out to pick a fight. Sonny was right, Mahira was upset. Both Jason and Clay required attention. "This isn't over." She told him.

With Pashtan doing his best to translate, Lisa was able to convince Mahira that: no, no one had up and died on her kitchen table; no, Clay wasn't dead, the mean men hadn't killed him; yes, the poor boy still breathed; yes, they would indeed move him. Yes, Jason too.

But it wasn't Lisa's words of assurance that silenced Mahira. It was what the men were doing. In stunned disbelief, she watched Sonny and Trent pick Jason up from the floor and carry him into the living room where they put him on her couch and promptly ignored him. They returned to the kitchen where Brock was removing the ropes around Clay's ankles.

Once free, they picked him up and carried him to HER bedroom. Her husband protested, moving to halt their progress. Brock firmly pushed him back into his corner and Sonny and Trent kicked open the door to the bedroom. She followed – Brock allowed her, apparently they no longer thought her a threat – clucking fluidly in her native language.

Sonny really wished she would shut the fuck up.

"Christ, he's a solid little shit. Heavier than he looks. They call this a bed?" Sonny said in disgust. They heaved and swung Clay up and over, dropping him on top of the sheets. "It's on ropes."

"They ain't got much." Trent agreed. "It's off the floor….the hell?" he was pushed aside as Mahira wedged between them, still ranting, shaking her head.

"I don't think she likes him in her bed." Sonny mused.

"She's probably never seen a naked man in her life."

"Pffft." Sonny scoffed. "He's not naked."

"Might as well be to her." He turned towards the door, moving Mahira aside. "Go." He pointed.

Mahira shook her head but they didn't understand why she was still upset. Sonny shrugged and left. Trent followed, leaving a flabbergasted Mahira staring at the man in her bed. Belt still around his thigh, hands still tied, still covered in sweat, blood, dirt, sand. He was filthy. The staples – something she'd never seen before – pulling his skin together were left open to the air, still oozing blood, puss, saline…..no bandage to protect it from sand or dirt….his leg unwashed.

This was care?

She waited, but no one returned to see to him. There he lay, all sprawled out, trembling, sweating, bleeding, in her bed, ruining the mattress. She said a prayer, shook out a light blanket, tossed it over him and left the room. He wasn't her problem.

"Jason still out?" Someone asked and someone answered, but Mahira didn't hear the response, wondered what they were doing, when someone would take care of the man in her bed. No one went.

She wandered aimlessly around her house, feeling oddly detached at everything she saw and heard. Her life and house tossed upside down, inside out.

She was in the children's bedroom. They were playing a board game. She promised them something to eat soon.

She was in the kitchen. Brock and Lisa were picking up Clay's gear, clothes, equipment, weapons; rifle, handgun, knife, stacking it near Jason. The floor was cleared. Broken dishes, pieces of pottery and remnants of the meal swept into a corner. Towels were tossed over the puddles of blood and water on the floor, wiped with feet and left. The table was wiped down, the rags tossed on the growing pile of towels on the floor.

She was at the front door. The Humvee that had brought these men to her door sat right outside. Such a large vehicle, and yet, they hadn't heard it approach. A fluorescent multi-colored flag flapped from the antenna in the wind.

She was in the living room. Jason hadn't moved, still sprawled as he was when he'd been dropped on the couch. The man was obviously ill, and he still scared her.

She was in her bedroom. The man in her bed stilled breathed. Panted actually. For even with the blanket covering most of him, she could see his chest heave with each gulped breath. He hadn't moved. He too, was sprawled on his back. But while the man on the sofa didn't move, this one didn't lie still. The blanket was rucked up to his knees, he fretted his feet. He was hot, too hot, cooling him down would help him rest easier. He was restless, moving uneasily, his head, his feet, twisting his hands against the rope...she bowed her head. Her husband would be cross were she to offer hospitality to their unwelcome and unwanted houseguests, but the man needed care.

She turned to leave and her forehead met a hard obstacle. She froze, didn't move, didn't blink, didn't utter a squeak. Didn't raise her head until the .9mm pressed hard against her skin, forced her head back until the strain made her neck ache.

He was so close to her, had approached from behind without her being aware, she was too scared to move, or speak. She started to tremble, tear-filled eyes downcast, wanting to plead for her life, beg that her children needed their mother, but she kept her tongue.

"Boss?" Lisa said calmly. "What'cha doing?"

"What is she doing in here?"

"Just checking on Clay." Or so she hoped. "She means him no harm."

"Get her out of here."

The gun was pressed against her forehead so hard, it was leaving a red mark. Her knees were shaking, making her gait stilted as she allowed Lisa to put an arm around her shoulders and lead her from the room. Lisa gave Jason a dirty look. He didn't care.

Jason set the safety and tucked the gun behind his back in the waist of his pants. A glance at Clay told him the kid was struggling to gain control, and he was breathing, but that knowledge did nothing to calm his nerves. He still didn't know if the kid was ok, would be ok or when he would know.

"Hey!" Sonny yelled at him from the kitchen. "Leave him alone and go lie down! He's fine!"

Jason hesitated. He was too unsteady, too weak to put up a fight if Sonny came after him, but he didn't want Clay out of his sight. Because Clay wasn't fine. He knew that. He did.

"BOSS!"

Jason went down where he stood.

This time, someone came to get him. They picked him up and carried him back to the couch. They put him down and left him alone.

Their wounded and ill attended, quarters secured, the team now saw to their own comfort. That's the way it was. The way they were trained, the way they performed, the way their team worked. Immediate care and attention had been given, time to eat. So, they sat on their helmets, munching on sandwiches.

Mahira stumbled, catching her weight against the counter. Two men injured and they calmly ate? One suffering, both ignored and they sat, laughing in the kitchen?

"Appears women can pack a cooler like they do a purse," Sonny commented around a mouthful of shredded, if a bit wilted, lettuce. "Never-ending goodies in there."

"Still don't know how they get all that shit in a purse." Brock agreed. Or found time to toss ready-made hoagies into a cooler while running to catch a waiting Humvee on a search mission, but hey, he wasn't complaining.

"Hey, your life often depends on my superior packing skills." Lisa kicked his ankle. "Haven't killed you yet. Trent, Clay ok?"

Trent shrugged. "Maybe."

"Meaning, come on Blackburn." Sonny was still hungry but said nothing. They still had to feed Jason, perhaps Clay. The ice had melted, but the drinks inside the cooler were still cold.

"Wouldn't hurt him to put a pep in his step." Trent agreed. "Kid's strong, he's fighting."

"Yeah, but he's fighting us."

"No good can come of that."

"Hope no one ever tries to torture that kid."

"He won't break easy."

"He trusts us and he still wouldn't give up and let go."

"Has a pretty high tolerance of pain."

"He's a wuss. Passed out from a couple of staples."

"He's a stubborn shit." Trent stood up. "Gonna secure the perimeter before dark."

"He'll search in the dark." Brock said, meaning Blackburn. "Want company?"

Trent shrugged. Brock took that as; don't care, whatever, sure, if you want.

"Ten minutes." Lisa said. "Don't make me come after you."

"What she said." Sonny made a point to glance at his watch.

Pashtan showed them where to throw trash, where to put towels and cloths for laundry, another cistern in the house where they could obtain safe drinking water; asked permission for his siblings to be allowed a meal.

"The hell?" Sonny growled. "We aren't monsters."

"We burst in and took over their house Sonny. We didn't knock and ask for assistance. You bullied the father, threatened the mother, scared the children. You destroyed their home. Ruined their dishes, table, chairs, bed. They've been taught to fear American soldiers."

"We haven't hurt them." He waved at Mahira who had come in the back door with a pitcher and was pouring its contents into handle-less cups. "She just does whatever she wants."

"She's feeding her kids Sonny. Something you should see about doing."

That shut Sonny up. He didn't want to go near Clay. Scared the kid would look at him with those blue eyes full of accusation and blame. If anyone could convey emotions with their eyes, it was Clay. And those eyes were currently murky and pain-filled.

"I know what you're thinking." Lisa said. "How you feel."

"Don't think you do."

She snorted. "Yeah, and the perimeter needs securing. Sure."

"It does." Sonny insisted.

"Uh-huh." She opened the cooler, taking out bottles of Gatorade. "Trent is full of guilt. Jason asked butTrent made the decision to put Clay through this Sonny. He may very well be told by the doctor it was needless."

"Gut tells me different."

"I know. But you weren't the one finger deep in muscle and tissue."

"No." Sonny agreed. "Just tied him up, held him down, sat on him, smacked his head against a table, so you know, Trent could go cutting him up. That's all."

"You want Jason? Or Clay?" she held two bottles.

Sonny growled and snatched a bottle. "You and me."

She gave him a cheeky grin and followed him out of the kitchen.

"How is he?" Jason was awake, half sitting up, half slumped against the couch. "Where's Brock?"

"Brock's good." Lisa answered. "How are you feeling?"

"Spencer?" he ignored her.

"What's she up to?" Sonny wondered, not hearing or answering Jason, attention on Mahira.

Mahira walked by bearing a tray with a pitcher, cups and a bowl. Pashtan followed her with a pail of water and a handful of cloths. She'd made up her mind these men didn't intend to hurt, rape or kill her or her family and if no one was going to see to the care and comfort of the man in her bed, she'd do it herself. There'd been an argument with her husband, but he had finally conceded, stating while he wouldn't help the 'invading infidels', he wouldn't stop her from doing so as long as their son remained with her.

"Sonny." Jason began, waving a hand after Mahira. He took the bottle Lisa held out to him. "Any aspirin?"

"I'm on it boss."

Sonny followed her back to Clay's room. She set the tray on the dresser, directed Pashtan were she wanted him to set the pail of water and motioned for him to remove the blanket. Then she just stood and stared at Clay. Finally, she reached to remove the belt around his thigh. She tried four times. But each time she reached out, she pulled her hands back and tucked them into her skirts. She'd wait a moment and try again.

"Ibuprofen." Lisa offered Jason three. "Clay's holding on. Take these and lie back down." She pushed his shoulder until he went down on his back. "Sonny has him, go to sleep."

Mahira moved back when Sonny stepped forward. She kept her eyes on her folded hands.

Clay stirred, sensing the presence of others suddenly in the room with him. He tensed, willing his eyes to obey – to open, to focus, to see. But the room was dim, the scents around him unfamiliar to anything he was remotely accustomed to and what shapes and shadows he could see, were not identifiable. The bed didn't even feel like a mattress. He swallowed, stomach churning. It was a bed, wasn't it? Oh God, where was he?

"So kid, how did not having anesthesia or pain meds feel? You remember any of it?" Sonny had to cinch the belt tighter before he could release it, wincing when Clay jerked. "Sorry, easy there. You good? Just need another sec. No? Don't like that?" Clay was squirming. "Okay, hang on." He reached into a pocket on the leg of his camos.

Mahira grabbed Pashtan and hid him behind her, backing them away when Sonny pulled a knife.

Clay was still trying to gain his senses, trying to wake up, trying to comprehend what was going on. Nothing was right. He was hot. He hurt – no, he was in pain. His leg. Something was tight, held pressure, getting tighter. His hands were tied. He couldn't think, couldn't connect to reality. He tried focusing on what he last remembered…..

"Please sir," Pashton peeked around his mother. "She mean him good. See?" he pointed to the tray. "Water."

"No, no lad." Sonny shook his head and slowly reached for the rope dangling from Clay's bound wrists. "Gonna cut him loose is all."

 _They were on a recon mission with Delta. Their leader was an asshole. Didn't like Jason. Clay didn't like him. Sonny was bitching. Clay was sent high. A pull-out was called. The trucks rolled out. He didn't even bother to pick up his pace. Even a flat-out run wouldn't get him there in time. He'd been left behind. In the desert. Alone. With a canteen of water that wouldn't last through morning._

 _He started walking, didn't get far. Strong winds. Sand blew up, in his eyes, his nose, he tasted it, swallowed it. He couldn't see his hand in front of his face. The truck tracks were gone. The road was gone. He needed shelter._

 _He stumbled, right leg buckling. He was on his knees._

 _Something was in his leg…..he'd been shot? He hadn't heard gun fire…..blood…..something was sticking out of his thigh. A stick? Ow. It fucking hurt. He tried to stand. Couldn't. The sand attacked. It punched him, knocking him to his back. A man. A fist fight…..the attacker grabbed the stick, shoved it deeper into his thigh, the stick broke…black dots danced, his vision narrowed, his hearing faded…he pulled his gun….shot the man between the eyes, rolled away…..nothing. A Humvee…..Jason…..nothing….._

He didn't remember anything after Jason caught him and they both hit the ground. He shifted uneasily, chest tight, making it hard to breathe. He lived, but he didn't know for how much longer. His heart had relocated to his right thigh and despite being confused, he knew that wasn't good. Hearts should not be moved.

 _Thumpthumpthumpthump – thumpthump – thumpthumpthumpthump – thumpthump._

But it still pumped blood through his body. He felt every beat, every pulse, every throbbing, painful thump. He swallowed. Hard. Swallowed again. Tried not to panic. The simple beating of his heart shouldn't hurt so much. No part of him should hurt this much. Why did he hurt so much?

He concentrated on attempting to gain control and subdue his panic. He'd been taught better. He knew better. Do. Not. Panic. You. Can. Not. Panic. Do. Not. Panic.

But he didn't know where he was. Or why. He knew he wasn't on base or even in a hospital. He didn't know who he was with. He knew he wasn't alone. Someone was with him. Fight or flee?

Panic. Fight.

His bound hands came up, twisting over his head to grab at the headboard with a palm. Grabbing hold, he pulled himself up, coming off the mattress faster and with more ease than Sonny had guessed him capable of.

"Whoa! Easy there kid." Sonny held his hands up, arms out, dropped the knife. "Spencer? Just me. Ole Sonny Quinn."

Had Clay not attempted to pull his legs up and get them underneath him, he might have been able to stand. But he didn't go for his feet, he went for his knees and his thigh didn't cooperate. With a cry, he went face first into the mattress, hands reaching to hold his thigh, but his own touch started him screaming.

"DAMMIT!" Sonny exploded.


	5. Chapter 5

Sonny heard Lisa yelling his name, guessed Jason was now awake, bet Trent and Brock were running from wherever they'd gone off to. And he hadn't even touched the kid.

"What are you doing to him?" Lisa was in the room. "You were supposed to see if he was awake! Not dump him on his head!"

"I didn't touch him!"

Mahira sadly shook her head. This is what happened when you tortured someone and then left them alone, in a strange house, unattended.

"The hell?" Brock rounded the shed that housed the stove, joining Trent. "That Spencer?"

"He shouldn't be moving yet." Trent frowned. "Shouldn't even be awake."

They stood and stared at one another then bolted. They ran. Oh hell yes they did.

Jason flailed, fighting the couch, scrambling to find his feet. Fucking, soft, deep cushions were determined to keep him hostage. Another yelp from Clay and Jason threw his weight against the back of the couch, rocking it back and knocking it over. It dumped him to the floor, and he rolled with it. Finally free, he crabbed over to the wall, gained his feet. Felt like it had taken him forever, felt like he was moving in slow motion, but it'd been actual seconds.

"Sonny!" Jason yelled, stumbling when dizziness hit him in such a wave, he went to his knees. "Dammit." He muttered, giving himself a second before pushing to his feet, hand fumbling for his gun.

"We're good boss!" Sonny yelled back. He lifted Clay up, hands under his arms. Lisa grabbed his legs, and they were able to put Clay on his back. Please God, don't let a fucked-up Jason come in shooting.

"Sonny?!"

Mahira heard the tread of booted feet coming fast. And with the arrival of Trent and Brock, she once again, in a matter of hours, watched the destruction of another room in her home. She hung her head when the chair was kicked out of the way, the pail of water upended, the pile of cloths scattered. The tray on the table crashed to the floor. Lamps, bottles, photos fell over, fell off. Five people just did not fit in the room and yet, they crowded around the bed; armchair, nightstand, bed-bench, shoved aside. And still, they didn't get in each other's way.

Clay felt hands on his shoulders, felt the touch take hold, tighten, lift. He resisted, going limp, but with his hands bound, couldn't throw a punch, so he was picked up, turned around and put back down. He pulled away as soon as he was released. Tried to sit up, but his legs still weren't working the way he wanted them to and he collapsed on his side, panting through a red haze of pain.

Voices. Hands. Yelling. Calling his name. Demanding he answer. Telling him what to do.

He was picked up, lifted, held, put back down. His hands were grabbed, held, the rope binding them fell, released. The pressure around his leg increased until he was yelling, then it was gone. He choked at the feelings – numbness, tingling, pricking, pain – and he was on his side. Didn't know he was puking until his head was held over the side of the mattress.

"Jesus."

"He's puking sand."

"You got something for him?"

"Yeah, hold his arm."

"Hell, all you need is a muscle, stick him in the ass."

"Jason?"

Jason raised a finger, universal motion for asking for a second. "Clay? Hey, hey, you with me? Clay, need you to focus." Jason dragged Clay's head off the mattress, held his chin between his palms, forcing his head still. "Clay, look at me. No." Jason snapped his fingers in Clay's face. "Look at me….that's it….okay…good, I need you to look at me….you see me? Spencer! Look. At. Me. That's an order."

Clay blinked, tongue licking sweat from his split lip. It stung. His stomach was still knotted, heaving, but the vomiting had stopped. Jason waited for recognition to dawn in the kid's eyes, but none came.

"You need to stay still. You hear me?" Clay didn't respond, squirming away, trying to break the hold on his chin. Jason looked over his shoulder, eying the syringe Trent held and pushed Clay onto his left hip.

"How much we got left?" Sonny asked.

"After this? One."

It didn't take long for the mild dosage of morphine to render Clay once again compliant. He was pushed on to his back and he went limp.

"Christ, my head hurts." Jason sat down on the edge of the bed, holding his head with both hands.

"Called the flu." Lisa quipped.

"It's not the fucking flu!" he flared irritably.

"People die from the flu Jason." She continued.

"I'm not dying." He scowled. "No one is. You hear me?"

"She say he need quiet." Pashtan translated. "Clean. She help."

"Watch her." Jason told Lisa. Her eyebrows went up at the command, but he laid back, wrong-ways, at the foot of the bed, putting an arm over his eyes. If Clay kicked out now, he'd kick Jason in the side but he could handle a bruise or two. No way was he leaving this room this time.

"Boss, you ain't looking so good." Sonny said.

"Fucked up day." Jason didn't move his arm. "We good?"

"Feel better, he sees a doctor." Trent said. "Too much I just don't know." He studied Clay. "Didn't hit bone, but could be internal damage."

"These people still can't tell us where base is?" Jason slurred.

"No." Brock answered. "Best they can do is tell us there's a village…." He pointed. "That way."

"Does it have electricity? Communications? It can't be far, these kids go to school somewhere." Jason sat up, accepted a cup of tea from Mahira,

"You want two of us to take the Humvee, the kid who speaks English, see if we can find the village?" Brock asked.

"Dunno." Jason sighed. "Don't know anything about the village. We go rolling in, set off a panic, or encounter hostiles. Outmanned and outgunned." He tossed something to Sonny.

"We can walk."

Jason shook his head. "We'll see."

Sonny caught the toss and turned it this way and that in his fingers. "This what Trent dug out of him? Not very big, cause all that pain." he pointed at the bed. "Do that to him."

"Arrow head." Trent leaned over. "What I thought. Hate arrows. Never sharp enough. The duller, the more painful."

"Shale." Jason said. "Maybe."

"Not the strongest rock to make arrow heads out of." Sonny commented. "Easily fragments not made right. Leaves sharp edges. This feels sharp to me. Was sharp enough to go through his camos and lodge fairly deep."

"I'm pretty sure I got everything outta there, 'fore I stapled him up." Trent said. Sonny nodded. "Guessin' though."

"Don't know what kind of bow it was shot from." Brock took it. "Seems pretty solid."

"Where's the shaft?"

"Weakest point is where shaft attaches to the arrow." Jason sat forward and cupped his chin in his hand, elbow on his knee, held the cup out for a refill. Mahira obliged.

"He's got a bruise on his chin." Trent recalled. "Fist fight? He got shot by the arrow, the shooter attacked him. Shaft got broken in the fight."

"Would explain the depth of the wound."

"So, where's this fictional dude?" Lisa asked.

"Dead." Jason replied instantly. "We didn't hang around looking for bodies."

"No blood on him that wasn't his." Lisa shook her head.

"I don't know Davis and we're not going back." Jason snapped. Wherever back was. "He's dead. If he wasn't, Spencer would be. So get over I'm not shedding a tear."

"Someone needs a nap." Sonny said. "Boss." he added pointedly.

Mahira placed a stool next to the bed and sat down. She looked at Lisa for permission, then held a cup to Clay's lips, his head supported by her hand, but he wasn't willing to drink. She was gentle, patient, just sat and held and waited while Clay kept turning his head.

"Drink." Jason ordered, giving Clay's left knee a stinging smack.

Mahira jumped, the liquid in the cup sloshing, but not spilling.

Blue eyes focused on Jason, Clay finally accepted the tea. He drank, he spit it out. He drank more, tried to swallow, spit it out. Mahira gently wiped his chin, tried again. He drank, tried to swallow, spit it out. She added water to the tea in the cup, tried again. He drank, tried to swallow and spit it out.

Sonny growled, growing impatient.

Mahira frowned at him, waving the hand holding the cup in his direction impatiently. Clay squeezed his eyes shut. The slight motion caused his face to scrunch and his sunburned skin pulled painfully, making him wince. He pulled his head away from her touch with a hiss.

It didn't matter whether or not the poor man liked the taste of her tea. He needed fluids and drink it he would.

Sonny saw the wince, heard the hiss and was moving forward, intending to bodily remove Mahira from the bedside, but she brought him up short with a spatula in his face. She jabbed at him with the handle, railing at him in her language, warning him off.

"Ha!" Brock crowed. "Ole Sonny Quinn felled by a cooking utensil."

"Fuck you."

"Everyone out." Lisa ordered, pointing to the door. "Done with you. Out."

"Say what?"

"You've done enough." Lisa retorted. "Leave him to us."

"You heard her." Jason yawned. "Sack out."

"You too." Lisa said.

In reply Jason gave her an 'I'm-the-boss-and-I'll-do-what-I-want', smirk, and flopped down on his back. His ass wasn't leaving this bed until Clay did.

"Fine." She threw her hands up. "Stay then. Whatever."

Mahira encouraged Clay to continue drinking tea, he finally managed to swallow and she waited while he was sick. The process was repeated until he finally kept the tea down, too exhausted and his stomach muscles too sore to keep heaving.

The never-ending offer of tea finally stopped and an ice pack was place beneath his neck, his head on the mattress. Jason, finally convinced Mahira wasn't hurting the kid, dozed off, coming awake whenever Clay whimpered or cried out, digging his heels against Jason's hip. Mahira washed the sweat from Clay's face, neck, shoulders, chest, arms, hands. Dabbed cream on his cheeks, lips, eye lids. Laid a cloth soaked in cool water on his forehead. Offered him water, coaxed him to swallow, patiently gave him time to see if it would stay down.

But when it came to his thigh, he clamped his legs together and refused to allow her access. She huffed. She'd finally worked up the courage to touch such an intimate area of a male body and he wouldn't let her. She looked at Lisa.

"Jason?" Lisa was loathe to call the guys back in and have them hold Clay down. She didn't want that. Knew they didn't want that.

Jason heard her, he did. But he was tired. Tired of issuing orders, making decisions, being here. But he didn't get to be tired. Or sick. Or sick and tired. He rolled to his right side, facing Clay, came up to recline on his elbow, and grabbed Clay's left ankle.

"Spread 'em." He ordered.

Again blue eyes met his. Steady for a moment, then wavering.

"You're worse than my nine year old." Jason slapped Clay on his left thigh. "Spread your legs."

Clay tried to pull his knees up, but neither obeyed his command. His right leg wouldn't move at all, his left leg was held tight and when he tried to tug it free, the hold tugged back, dragging him down the mattress. He came up on his palms, an attempt to find support in his effort to free his foot.

"Don't fight me." Jason snapped. "Lie down." He came up on his hip. "You're begging for an ass kicking." He squeezed Clay's ankle hard enough to elicit a gasp. "Now. Spread. Your. Fucking. Legs."

Clay went flat. Hands sliding out and up until his arms flopped on either side of his head, he hid his face against his left shoulder.

"Spencer." Jason uttered through clenched teeth.

His toes curled, his knees locked, his thigh muscles quivered then with a hitch in his breath, he relaxed and splayed his knees, and after a second or two, his thighs.

Jason winced, breath hissing through his teeth at sight of the staples. Red. Swollen. Oozing. Scabbed with dry blood. The skin, held together by seven staples, pulled and strained against the foreign objects. He let go of Clay's foot and laid back down. Least he hadn't torn any staples loose or out after his thrashing about the bed.

Mahira faltered, hand holding a wet cloth hovering around his knee. Turning his head, Clay eyed her warily, the waiting rag an instrument of torture. Her hand shook at the look he leveled her with.

"Easy Clay." Lisa cautioned. "She'll stop, it gets too much."

Tending his thigh made her blush, perspire, but Mahira trudged on. He was sensitive to her touch, the rag, the water. Winced, flinched, twitched, murmured in protest, the dosage of morphine just enough to hold him while she washed the blood and dirt from his leg. But either it was wearing off or the pain was topping it because he was getting restless – and bolder.

Lisa raised his leg slightly by holding his foot and Mahira cleaned the back of this thigh. He let her – because Jason smacked his shin – but he was tense. She sat back with a sigh, looking at Clay who lay, panting, bottom lip between his teeth. Would he let her touch the staples?

Lisa offered Clay some water but he shook his head, wouldn't even look at her.

Mahira chewed her cheek, considering what to do. In her opinion, the staples and incision should be washed clean of sweat, dirt, blood, what-all. Letting that kind of 'dirt' remain begged for infection – was a breeding ground – and she didn't understand why these men hadn't taken the necessary precautions to prevent it from taking hold.

Clay remained still, jerking the closer she dabbed the soft rag towards the staples. He tensed, jerked, visibly relaxed. Tensed, flinched, relaxed. Tensed, flexed, relaxed. His breathing increased, once again became a heavy pant. She backed off but he wasn't calming down like he had previously.

Before Jason could rouse and land another slap or issue another order, Trent was there, last shot of morphine in his hand.

"So soon?" Lisa questioned. "Hip?"

Trent nodded. "He can handle it."

"How long will it hold him?"

"Not long." Trent sighed. "Was hoping he'd stay out and I'd clean him up."

"He doesn't want her anywhere near those staples."

"Don't blame him. He hurts." Trent pushed his hair back. "Bone deep pain Davis, I went digging around, muscle, tendon…..hell, I dunno." He nodded at Mahira. "Let's get this over with."

Rather than leaving him flat on his back, Trent nudged Clay towards his right side. But Clay had had enough being moved around and resisted, pulling back. A smack from Jason on his foot quelled his resistance.

"Easy." Trent felt him shaking. "Sssh….almost done. I promise." He pushed Clay's knees apart, raised his left leg, foot flat on the mattress and had Lisa hold it in that position.

"Making me blush here Trent." Lisa grinned.

"His leg muscles are strong. Ready?" he asked Mahira. "He's too weak to put up much of a fight, but he's gonna try."

With his legs spread so far apart, Lisa keeping his left foot, sole down, on the mattress and with Trent holding tight to his right knee, Mahira had easy access to the staples and began dabbing, rubbing, wiping. She didn't tug or pull, but even her light, gentle, touch was too much.

Trent had warred over whether or not to clean Clay up, reluctant to put him through anything more, subject him to more suffering, when retrieval from base was bound to happen any minute, but finally decided Mahira was right. Infection was imminent and could turn deadly. He had no antibiotics with him either. And retrieval might not come until morning.

Clay struggled to remain still, hands fisted in the sheets an anchor, but Trent was right, he didn't have the strength to put up a fight.

"Almost done." Trent said.

Didn't matter.

Clay fisted, clenched, released. Flailed his hands. Held, pulled, released. Flailed. Fisted, clenched, flailed. Looked for something, anything to hold on to. Jason made a grab for the hand closest to him, missed, grabbed again. Clay was quick and Jason was dulled by a muddled reaction time, but he finally caught the kids wrist and held tight.

"Stop." he ordered. "Just. Stop."

Denied his hold on the sheets, Clay clasped Jason's wrist and Jason let him hold tight. Even if he did wince a time or two.

Maybe it was because Jason was close or maybe the second shot of morphine was finally strong enough to top his resistance or maybe he was exhausted and succumbed to shock, blood loss, whatever, but Clay finally gave in, gave up, quit, passed out.

"Done." Trent said, thigh bandaged tight and taped. "Let him go." and if he saw the hold the team's youngest member had on the team's boss, he did nothing about it. Jason wasn't breaking the hold or moving off the bed, and the kid deserved whatever comfort he could get.

Clay finally lay quietly on his right side, breathing more or less normal. Despite the heat, Mahira kept him covered with a light blanket. Jason was mostly on his left side, back to Clay, hugging a pillow.

"Too cute." Lisa commented tiredly, she was emotionally shot, mentally exhausted. "They make a T."

Trent gave her a hug, she clung tight. Nothing to do now but wait.

***000***

"Commander!" Eric's office door burst open and a soldier rushed through, remembered his rank, backed up, knocked on the door frame and rushed through a second time, again without being granted permission to enter.

"Enter." Eric said wryly. He still sat at his desk, sharing it with Mandy who remained with him, both had laptops open.

"Found a Humvee sir."

"Bravo's?"

"Unconfirmed."

"In the search area?"

"No sir,"

"No?" Eric echoed. "Then where?"

"Roughly 15 miles East sir."

The opposite direction of base. He'd approved an air search two hours ago by surveillance chopper.

"Helo?" the chopper capable of transporting the entire team back to base.

"Waiting orders, sir."

"How did they identify a Humvee this time of night?"

"A neon multi-colored flag with reflectors, sir."

***000***

It was dark, the family asleep, Mahira sharing a room with her daughters, her husband with the boys, when the house began to shake, and the yard was lit up with such bright lights, it became daylight.

Trent was asleep on the floor in front of the door to the room where Clay was,  
Brock was asleep on the floor in front of the back door.  
Sonny was asleep on the floor in front of the front door.  
Jason slept on the bed with Clay.

The children woke when the very walls of the house rattled.

"Chopper!" Sonny yelled, but everyone was already awake.

Once Pashtan translated to his parents not to be afraid, choppers had come to retrieve the men, nothing, not even a swat on the behind with a wooden spoon got the children away from the front window. They had never seen a helicopter before and even though it was dark outside, with all its lights, it was easily seen. And this was one huge!

And it landed. Right in their front yard. It was so close, sand kicked up and beat against the windows. Mahira very much feared the glass would shatter under the force of the whirling blades.

The door opened, armed men glided in. Sonny was hugging one of them, patting him on the back, kissing his cheek.

"Eric!" Lisa cried, forgetting rank and proper address. "So glad to see you!"

"Spenser?" Eric asked, giving Lisa a hug. Not come get his own team?

"Needs a doctor." Trent said.

Trent and Brock were on their feet, collecting every single item the team had carried into the house. The Humvee started up, driven away by a man who had gotten out of the chopper.

"Hayes?" Eric didn't see Jason. Or Clay. Felt his ulcer attack with a vengeance.

"With Spenser. Make it two stretchers."

Not even five minutes later, the family was once again alone in their home. Even the lights and sounds of the chopper were gone.

***000***

Jason woke up to bright lights, a needle in his arm, cool sheets beneath his hot body and a fucking headache.

"Chief Hayes." Doc greeted. "Welcome back."

"Spenser?" he groaned, hand going to press his palm against his forehead. "Fuck me."

"He's taken care of."

"How is he?" he was coming more awake.

"He's one lucky soldier."

"He's okay?"

"Yup. No muscle or tendon damage, nothing internal. Hit a nerve. Cause of all the pain. He won't even have a limp when he's old. We'll treat the infection. You're lucky your man was able to get that arrow head out. Shale fragments. Left in, it fragmented, could have caused permanent nerve or muscle damage, worked its way into a vein, could've killed him."

"Where is he?" he yawned. "Where am I?"

"Base infirmary. Where I wanted you before." He pointed. "You'll be my guests for a few days."

Jason raised his head and looked to his right. Clay was in the bed next to his, asleep, the dog curled around his feet. She raised her head and bared her teeth at Jason, daring him to make her move.

Well, okay then.

Cups of water sat on the table over his bed and he reached for one, taking the straw between teeth, because sitting up completely to drink like a man should, was currently beyond his ability.

As he became even more awake, more alert, he remembered leaving the house, boarding the chopper, issuing orders. The doc had been on board and came at him with an IV. Christ, the man and his desire to stick everyone with needles. Eric had ordered him to submit to the doc's care.

He had.

They'd landed, Cerberus was barking, men carried Clay away, Jason had followed, telling anyone who would listen he didn't want Clay out of his sight. Brock had told the dog to guard.

Jason looked over at the other bed. Well, obviously, he'd been obeyed. He was sharing a room with the kid. He pushed the table away and sat up, swinging his legs to the floor. When he wasn't assaulted by dizziness, he grabbed the IV pole and stood up.

Clay was sleeping on his side, sedated, whatever. He'd been cleaned up, properly medicated and attended. He had numerous bags feeding his IV; blood, saline, antibiotics, pain medication. Jason pushed the blanket covering the kids leg aside, but his thigh was bandaged and he wasn't about to remove it.

Clay stirred, moving his head away as Jason loomed over him. Jason waited, but Clay didn't awaken, so Jason woke him.

"Clay?" Jason called him by name. "Clay?"

"Mmmm." his head rolled on the pillow, eyes finally blinking open. He squinted, blinking. "Boss."

"Hey."

"Where...we...at?"

"Base. With the doc."

"They...left me...behind."

"Yeah, they did." Jason hung his head. That was his fault. And Eric's. "But I never will."

***END***

That's it peeps! Happy Summer!


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